A story of family, loss and transformation at a defunct roadside attraction in Crawfordville, GA.
I follow the call of Turtle Soup to the town of East Aurora, New York – where everyone marries their high-school sweetheart, a speargun is never too far away and canned turtle meat in nowhere to be found.
All the pieces of the tour reconvene in the charming Southern town of Savannah, GA. The first week finds our two-wheeled hero with a traveling companion, eating out of dumpsters and not eaten by wild hogs.
After a chance invitation in Cleveland, I head towards the mythical Turtle Soup gathering. In the first part of this story, hear of my adventures arriving – Amish clotheslines, bad jokes and an existential crisis amongst RV’s.
After 137 days, the Atlantic Ocean is reached in the town of Portsmouth, New Hampshire. State motto: Live Free or Die.
What do Tevye and rural Montanans have in common? Find out as mountains smooth into prairies, western towns reveal their secrets and a soda pop bottling plant tells it like it is.
The imaginings of the perfect cafe helps one wandering francophile transcend a supernatural stabbing leg pain.
A chance encounter with a honeybee causes our hero to wonder the meaning of all of this “dream-chasing, free-wheeling lone wolf crap”. A bent wheel, a bruised hip, a bar full of silver dollars. Will he find redemption in the frontierlands of Montana?
It must be said that I’m in Wisconsin now.
I sit at a wooden desk in lamplight, weariness prepared to overtake me for the evening. Out the open window of a house built around 1880, the chorus of crickets is a continuous hum, so unchanging I almost forget to hear it.
Do they know the effect of their collective clamor? Do we of ours?
Benge, Washington has no stores and almost no people. I stop to fill up on water and meet Lenny who lives in back of the old general store
Yesterday I crossed the Continental Divide. Of the many divides that exist on this continent, this one deals with water.
In my first podcast, I bring you the rhythm of the road, empty wheatfields, a swarm of bees and midnight roadside terror…
Will and I left Portland in a flurry of packing and cheek-kissing farewells. Will is my bicycle. Getting out of town, through Troutdale and onto the Historic Columbia River Highway was mainly an exercise in not toppling over.